Found
by blackkisbackk
Summary: Hermione is trying to find where she fits into her new life - it's been a year since Voldemort fell, she finished her Hogwarts education, and now she must get her parents' memories back, while continuing to heal. Along the way, she gets help from the unlikeliest of sources, a person she hadn't seen in over a year, the last person she expected to be just the person she needed...
1. Chapter 1

_**Note: Skip to the very beginning of chapter 3 just for a moment to read my note about strikethroughs before you read this chapter.**_

* * *

 **Part I**

 **1**

Hermione Granger stepped off the Hogwarts Express into the bright summer sun and squinted her eyes against the onslaught. She glanced around the platform and waved when she saw three familiar faces.

"So how does it feel?" Harry Potter asked, his hair black and messy as always, his green eyes significantly less haunted from the last time Hermione had seen him about three months previous during the last Hogsmeade visit of the year.

It had been a year of recovery for the group of them: Hermione, Harry, their best friend Ron Weasley, and Ron's sister—Harry's fiancée—Ginny Weasley. After Harry, Ron, and Hermione had worked to finally bring down Voldemort, the three of them weren't really sure what to do next. On the run for a year, plotting Voldemort's demise for even longer than that, and six years of magical education before _that_ , each of them wasn't really sure what it meant to live their lives outside of the things that had occupied their existence for such an enormous portion of their lives. What would it be like to go back into the world after the year they had just had, the things they had experienced, the trauma they had faced?

What was Harry to do after he had looked inside the head of a man he believed to have betrayed one of the people he thought he knew most in the world, accepted the fate he saw inside that head, and walked to his death only to discover that he couldn't be killed by Voldemort as long as the Elder Wand did not answer to him? What was Ron to do after facing down some of his biggest fears and insecurities at hands of a vile piece of Voldemort's soul? What was Hermione to do after being tortured for information by a maniacal, evil, zealot-for-the-cause witch who would stop at nothing to please her master?

Well. They would survive. They would move on. They would live.

Harry became an Auror like he had wanted ever since he understood what exactly it meant to have such a profession. His nightmares were violent and terrible at first, drenching him in a cold sweat, lingering throughout the days, but then slowly diminishing over time. The happiness returned to his eyes as the memories faded, though never fully left, never would, and Ginny helped him find his way with her love and support. He had his arm around her shoulders now as they stood on the platform, holding her a bit more closely and a bit more tightly than he would have had he not gone through what he had gone through. He always held her like that—with love and care and tenderness, with the underlying feelings of desperation and fear that had not gone and would not go for years to come. Ginny was a professional Quidditch player for the Holyhead Harpies—an all-female team—and it was obvious that she had been out in the sun practicing a lot lately. Her skin was more tanned and her freckles were more pronounced than Hermione had ever seen them.

Ron had spent the year working at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement along with Harry to hunt down the last of Voldemort's followers. Hermione had been, naturally, skeptical about this endeavor, fearing that it would set back the ability to recover from the previous year for both of them, until she realized that Harry thrived as an Auror, and the only way he would ever be able to fully move on was if he knew every last Death Eater was either dead or in Azkaban. Ron was different, though. He had chosen this path primarily to support Harry and to go on another great adventure—Ron had always been very, well, Slytherin about his quest for fame and glory—but Hermione knew it wouldn't and couldn't last, and she was right. About two months ago, Ron had decided that he was going to start working with his brother George at the joke shop he had started with their brother Fred a few years ago. Fred had died in the war, and George was struggling without him, so Ron decided that instead of being an Auror, he would take the time off and work with his brother, something that would do both of them a world of good.

For her part, Hermione had returned to Hogwarts. She just knew she would never be able to feel fully accomplished without completing her wizarding education, something she had dreamed of doing since she learned she was a witch when she was eleven years old. Ginny hadn't returned either, despite not finishing her seventh year completely, opting instead to fly with the Harpies, so it was strange to be at Hogwarts without any of her friends or anyone she knew really. She had known some of the younger Gryffindors, but without Harry and Ron to force her to be social, she had kept primarily to her books and studies, and she knew without question that it would pay off when she got her N.E.W.T. results in a few weeks. It had been a lonely and difficult year, but Harry, Ron, and Ginny had visited in Hogsmeade as often as possible. Hermione had gone to the Burrow for Christmas, and with her intense studying, the year had gone by quickly. But, bloody hell, was she happy to be back.

Hermione felt a warm flush in her heart at seeing all them. She stood on her toes to place a soft kiss on Ron's lips. They had decided to take things slow— _very_ slow—since they would hardly be able see each other during the time when Hermione was finishing up her education and Ron was hunting Death Eaters. They couldn't really be considered boyfriend and girlfriend, but they had a relationship of sorts, and Hermione was happy to see him.

"It feels good," Hermione said as she gave Harry a hug and then turned to Ginny to do the same.

"I still don't know why you felt like you had to finish your seventh year," Ron said with a shrug as he took Hermione's trunk and started to load her things onto a cart. "You could do anything you want without it."

"School is important to her," Harry said with a laugh. "Surely you must know that by now."

"Thank you, Harry," Hermione said with a look at Ron. "It's over anyway, Ronald, so you don't have to hurt your head wondering about it anymore." Ginny and Harry laughed while Ron scowled.

"We thought we'd take you to dinner," Harry said as they started to walk toward the entrance to Platform 9 ¾. He had moved away from Ginny only to throw an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "I made reservations at that place you like in London. I hope that's okay."

"I told them you would be tired—"

"No, it's fine," Hermione interrupted Ginny. "That sounds great." She glanced around Harry to where Ginny was on his other side, holding Crookshanks, who she'd taken out of his cage the moment she'd seen him. "Ginny, how's everything coming along?"

"Why are you asking her and not me?" Harry looked down at Hermione, looking faux-wounded.

Hermione laughed. "Okay, Harry, how is the wedding planning coming?"

He shrugged and looked ahead, his arm around her tightening a bit. "I don't know, ask Ginny." He smirked, and Hermione threw her head back in laughter.

It really was incredible to be back with them again.

* * *

 _July 10, 1999 11:42 pm_

 _I'm not really sure what the hell the bloody point of this is. But that_ _woman_ _insists that it will be "good for me" to "reflect" and "express my feelings."_

 _Bollocks._

 _There's nothing to reflect on or express. Everything is pretty fucking straightforward._

 _My parents attached themselves to a bloody maniac. I, being a stupid child who didn't know any better and who didn't understand anything in the world other than bringing pride and glory to the family, idiotically, attached myself to that maniac as well. That maniac started a war. He did horrible things to everyone. /_ _To me\_

 _Bloody hell._

 _I spilled tea all over this page and I can't get the stain out. I was never very good at cleaning spells. I didn't want to talk about the Dark Lord. But she insists that I talk about it. And then she freaks the hell out when I talk about him and my hands shake or my eyes "go blank" as she insists they do. Well, who cares if my hands shake a little when I talk about the Dark Lord? He was bloody scary. It's not that big of a deal. But now she's got me all worried about a little hand shaking and I dropped my tea._ _She_ _I didn't even want to hire this woman. My mother insisted._

 _My mother. Jesus, isn't that ever the topic that this woman always wants to talk about. My mother and my father._

" _Tell me about your childhood?"_

" _Do you feel like your parents forced you to be a Death Eater?"_

" _Did your father ever harm you?"_

" _Would you say your mother was your rock?"_

 _I mean, Christ. I told mum that a shrink—"A therapist, Draco, call her a therapist."—well, I told her that getting a shrink was a stupid idea. But her and father aren't around, and as much as mum makes overtures that they won't be gone forever, I know—as they do—that they aren't coming back. So mum says "you should talk to someone" when she floos. And I tell her it's ridiculous—that I'm fine in the Manor with the house elves that don't want to leave, but mum bloody well_ _insists_ _that that's not good enough._

 _I talk to_ _her_ _. Isn't that enough? I told her about the nightmares. I admitted that I hardly ever leave the manor. I even bloody admitted to her that I cry, well, more than is strictly necessary. I talk to her. Isn't that enough?_

" _No, Draco, it's not enough. Your father and I are all the way in France. I can't always be there for you when you need me."_

 _And when I told her that it was unbecoming of a Malfoy to see a shrink, she told me to grow up._

 _Can you believe that? My mother told me to grow up for just reciting all the shit that she and father have been hammering into my brain since birth!_

 _I guess I'll have to tell the therapist about that at some point. She's always asking about my parents. Did I mention that? I would say that's probably the main thing she asks about. I tried to find somebody else, but my mother said she was the most highly recommended therapist for wizards and witches in Europe. Please. Like there's such a huge market for magical shrinks._

 _But I figure everyone is going to want to know about my parents. And everyone is going to think it's odd that I live all alone in the manor, but what do they know? This is my home. I'm not about to go run away and hide in France like my parents are doing. Dr. Blazer (not her real name, but she always wears these two bloody blazers, a tan one and a navy blue one. I swear to Merlin that she doesn't have a single other article of clothing but those two bloody jackets), she would say that what I'm doing at the manor is no better than what my parents are doing in France, but she's wrong. I'm here, aren't I? Sure I make the servants get me everything I need when I need anything that requires traveling into Diagon Alley or anywhere else wizards might be, but I go out. I mean, hell, I consort with_ _muggles_ _. Tell me that's not healing and moving on and overcoming adversity, or whatever other shit she spouts off._

 _Being on my own has given me time to do other things I enjoy. Who knew anyone could get such singular pleasure from doing something so muggle and so common as lifting weights or punching a bag that hangs from your ceiling. I mean, hitting that bag feels absolutely bloody amazing. So I do that. And I read. And I see Dr. Blazer. I even got one of those muggle contraptions that plays moves. Or movIEs I think they're called. In fact, I was watching this movie called "Rocky" that inspired me to get those muggle weights and that bag._

 _But Dr. Blazer says that isn't good enough. So she insists that I write down my feelings. So here's how I feel today._

 _I'm tired._

 _I'm bored._

 _I miss my parents._

 _I wish I had been able to go back to Hogwarts. They just finished a few weeks ago. It's not that I want to see any of them or anything like that._ _I just_

 _/I think I would like to be in the halls and feel\_

 _I just like to finish things that I start. It's nothing more than that._

 _The house is quiet today._

 _Perhaps I'll go for a walk._

* * *

"I made pancakes," Hermione called over her shoulder as she heard footsteps behind her entering into the kitchen of Ginny's flat. She saw Harry coming in and she smiled as he toweled off his wet hair. "Good morning," she said.

Although Harry had his own tiny, disgusting flat in London, he spent most of his time at Ginny's, which was also where Hermione had been staying for the past month. It had been sort of an unspoken thing, that Hermione would stay with her friend—unspoken because no one wanted to mention the fact that Hermione's parents were still in Australia with no idea that a "Hermione Granger" even existed, and their house was still where it was, but Hermione hadn't been back since she left it almost two years ago—and Ginny had just sort of ordered Harry to take all of Hermione's things to her flat that day a few weeks ago when Hermione had returned from Hogwarts. And she had been there ever since. And every time Hermione made any mention of looking for her own place, both Ginny and Harry waved her off like it was absolutely nothing.

"You don't have to make us breakfast every morning, Hermione," Harry said as he flicked his wand at the tea kettle and it automatically started boiling.

"I like doing it," she responded with a shrug. "After going so long without being able to cook for myself, it's kind of fun."

"Well, what did you put in those pancakes _this_ morning?" Harry asked, steeping his tea bag in the mug of hot water he'd just poured. He emphasized the word because Hermione had had a habit of putting strange things in the pancakes she often made for them. Well, it wasn't _that_ strange, it was fun and new, and unless you tried a pancake with bacon and cheese in it, or maybe kale or mint, how would you know if you liked it or not?

"Just blueberries."

"Oh, thank god," Harry breathed in relief.

"Oi! You've liked all my pancakes!"

"True, but he'll eat basically anything," Ginny said after she entered the kitchen and sat down next to Harry, taking his cup out of his hands and taking a long swallow. Hermione blushed and turned back to the stove when she noticed that Ginny's hair was also wet and fresh from the shower, as she realized exactly what that must have meant.

A few minutes later, Hermione had finished with their breakfast and was placing the pancakes on plates for the three of them. When she turned toward the table, two plates in her hand, she noticed that Ginny was giving Harry a firm look, and Harry looked like he was trying to tell her silently to back off.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, heart beating a bit faster as she put the plates in front of them and looked between the two of them. "Have I finally overstayed my welcome?" she asked, turning to grab her plate and simultaneously trying to hide her hurt expression.

"No!"

"What? No way, Hermione."

"Then what is it?" she asked as she sat down next to Ginny, instantly relieved.

"Harry," Ginny said sternly.

Harry sighed. "Do you want to come work at the Department?"

Hermione frowned, confused, and took a bite of her pancakes. "What dep—oh." It dawned. " _Oh_."

"Kingsley wants to hire you," Ginny explained. "He told Harry when he found out your N.E.W.T. scores. Plus, I mean, with everything that happened… Well, his exact words were 'she's smarter than anyone we've got, she helped destroy Voldemort, and we could certainly use her expertise.'"

"I didn't want to say anything because I didn't think you'd want to," Harry said when Hermione didn't immediately respond. "I know you just got done with Hogwarts and… well, it's a lot, and I… Well, it's not because I didn't want you to work there, if that's what you're thinking. Of course I would want you there. It would be—well, it would be amazing to have you there, actually. Kingsley's right, you're definitely the smartest, and we've worked together on a mission like this before, you know, with the Horcruxes. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been able to do it, and—"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted, laughing at Harry's rambling nervousness. "Stop, stop." Hermione held up a hand. "I appreciate the offer, tell Kingsley that, but no thanks."

Ginny frowned and Harry opened his mouth and closed it.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before—"

"It's not that," Hermione said, stopping Harry before he could go off again. She was flattered, she really was, and she knew that she could do some good work as an Auror, especially if she worked with Harry. And Harry was right, they had done this kind of thing before and they would absolutely be able to do it again, but she knew she couldn't. Not now, anyway. She was still having nightmares about that time. She still wore long sleeves because she didn't want anyone to see her scar. She still woke up in a fright, thinking that she was on the run, hunting Horcruxes, and she would wake up with some idea or plan for finding them only to realize that it was over, that they had won. She still looked over her shoulder when she walked anywhere, even at Hogwarts, and she still cried herself to sleep when she got too overwhelmed thinking about all of it. So Harry was right about that, too. It was a lot. Too much. And Hermione wasn't ready.

"Tell Kingsley I'm flattered, but I just can't," she said. "Not yet—"

"What do you—"

"Okay," Harry said, interrupting Ginny who looked confused and indignant. "I understand. But when you're ready," he said with a knowing look. "We could really use you."

* * *

 _August 18, 1999 3:04 pm_

 _STOP TRYING TO DISTRACT YOURSELF FROM YOUR FEELINGS AND YOUR PAIN, DRACO._

 _Dr. Fucking Blazer insisted that I write that at the top of my next entry._

 _I thought that hag would be happy when I told her about reading_ _War and Peace_ _in a little over a month. I thought she would be happy when I told her I beat my own 5km running record. I thought she would laud me for planting a garden out in the yard behind the main house._

 _I thought it would show progress. I thought it would mean I was feeling better and moving on, but Blazer says that I'm only doing those things to distract myself. She says I've never come to terms with the things I did and the things that were done to me and the things that I did and saw and how I felt about everything and about Voldemort and blood purity and his bloody_ _ **cause**_ _. She says until I face all of that I won't be able to live my life and I'll stay "hiding away in my family fortress for the rest of my life."_

 _So I was ordered to write that ridiculous phrase at the top of my next bloody diary entry, which I don't even want to be fucking writing. And she said every day I have to acknowledge one thing that happened that scared me or upset me or made me question things—something that I still think about when I'm not "distracting myself." I have to write down at least one each day and talk about how it made me fucking feel. Good lord._

 _So here goes I guess._

 _/One thing\_

 _/There was this one\_

 _Jesus, I don't even know how to start this. It's weird, yeah? I mean, who the hell does stuff like this? And no matter how I say it, it's not going to seem_ _ **real**_ _. It's not going to seem genuine or feel authentic, and this needs to feel real because it_ _was_ _real. All of it. And I felt all of it. And I know I'll never be able to put on this bloody paper how scared or angry or conflicted or messed up I was at times, and I don't want to write it down because I don't want that feeling to be diminished._

 _Jesus, I sound like a poof._

 _3:40pm_

 _My mother would go insane if she knew I was smoking. I wonder what she would do if_ _she_ _told_ _me_ _that smoking was unbecoming of a Malfoy and_ _I_ _told_ _her_ _to grow up._

 _It doesn't matter anyway. I haven't seen my mother since last Christmas, and I doubt I'll see her again until next Christmas. By then I'll have kicked the habit._

 _Just now when I went outside to have a fag, the thing I wanted to write about—to please Blazer—suddenly came to my mind. I think about this a lot. Well, I try not to think about it, but sometimes it will just pop into my head, unbidden and unwanted. Like I'll be reading a book and it's just_ _THERE_ _, like it was always there and trying to come out and it was finally able to break free and it's right there. I dream about it. /_ _Nightmares, really, with the sound of her\_ _I've never told Dr. Blazer about it. I haven't spoken of it since it happened, and I just, well, I really try not to think about it. I think I already said that. /_ _It was\_ _Well I try not to think about any of what happened then. But I guess that's the problem, isn't it?_

 _It's the sound of her screams that I'll always remember. I remember it because it wasn't just a scream of pain. That's what really got to me. It wasn't even just a scream of fear. I mean… There was pain and fear and all of that, yeah, of course. Yeah. But it was the sound of confusion that I'll always remember. It wasn't just pain and fear and PLEASE STOP, it was_ _ **WHY**_ _. I heard it. I can still hear it. Underneath the pain and the fear, her screams were also_ _why are you doing this to me_ _?_

 _That's what I'll always remember._

 _I remember the other stuff. I remember Aunt Bella screaming at me, saying "WATCH. THIS DOESN'T EVEN COME CLOSE TO WHAT THE DARK LORD WILL DO TO YOU—TO ALL OF US—IF HE FINDS OUT. WATCH, DRACO, WATCH WATCH WATCH WATCH."_

 _Watch._

 _I can still hear her voice. Bella's, I mean. She was angry and she was scared, but Granger…_

 _She was confused._

 _ **Why are you doing this to me?**_

 _She never said it. But it was there._

 _And after it was all over—Cruciatus, sectumsempra—broken skin healed over and over again, becoming more tender, easier to slice, each time the curse was performed again—spells I had never seen before or heard of, designed to torture a person out of their mind—wouldn't be the first time she'd done it—I saw her. She looked so small. So frail. So gentle and fragile and pale and small. And her arm was bleeding where Aunt Bella had made the cut, where she had_ _carved_ _._

" _You're one of us now." She'd said that after she lifted her sleeve and sneered and showed Granger her dark mark._ _You're one of us now_ _. I don't know why she said that._

 _But Granger looked so small, and I knew that mark would be there her entire life._

 _ **MUDBLOOD**_

 _I had never felt regret like I had in that moment. It was searing and painful and_ _heavy_ _. It was heavy. Yeah, that's the best way to describe it. It was like an elephant was sitting on my shoulders. A bloody elephant of regret. I hadn't made the mark, and that wasn't what the regret was about, like I didn't feel guilty. Well. I don't know. I mean, I hated—_ _ **HATED**_ _—what Bella had done. I was shaking with rage that my parents and my aunt mistook for fear. It wasn't completely off base for them to think it was fear because back then I—all of us, really—lived in constant fear. But I wasn't shaking from fear. I was enraged. But I didn't make the mark. That wasn't where the regret came from. Seeing Granger there, the blood on her arm, the mark that would be there for life, I regretted ever calling her that. That's where the regret came from. I regretted it because I knew, somehow I knew, that she would look at that and she would hear_ _my_ _voice. She would hear me calling her that, and I wished I never had—called her that, I mean—because I didn't want her to hear my voice. I didn't want her to look at that mark and think of me. I didn't want Granger to think I would have done something like that or that I was like Bella—cruel and evil and maniacal. I didn't want Granger to think that I was_ _ **okay**_ _with that my aunt had done. I guess… Well I just didn't want Granger to think that I was one of them._

 _But I was._

 _I was one of them. And I guess, in a way, I always will be._

* * *

 _A/N: It's finally here - the Dramione prequel/spin-off that I promised you (at least that I promised those who didn't despise chapter 10 of And So They Spoke...). This story was meant to be MUCH shorter than it's turning out to be, but I just can't help myself. It will definitely be shorter than the story that it stems from, but it won't be as short as I intended. I haven't explored these two characters in YEARS, and the first ever Dramione I wrote was... well it was bad, at least to me. But thankfully for all of us I've grown as a writer, and I get to explore these two when I'm NOT a total n00b._

 _For those who didn't read Words Unspoken or And So They Spoke: You definitely DO NOT have to read those stories before you read this one. Obviously I want you to read them, but I recognize that they are insanely long so you don't have to. Everything from those stories that is necessary for this one will be in here in some form or another. The only thing I will say is that if you ever plan to read those, you should read them first because this story will spoil a huge story line that explains the end of Words Unspoken and most of And So They Spoke. So if you like Scorose and you want to read those at some point, definitely read those first. But if you just like Dramione and don't give a hell, then stick with me for this one!_

 _Thank you so much for starting this new journey with me - I hope you all enjoy this story as much as I do!_


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

The bell above the door to the shop tinkled, and Hermione looked up from her book to see an old wizened man walking slowly toward her, his gait slightly perturbed by a mild limp, a smile on his face—revealing his gold tooth—and two covered cups with steam leaking out of the narrow, ovular, mouth-like entrances on the top.

"Thought ye could use a pick me up," he said in his thick Scottish accent as he placed a cup in front of Hermione and then pulled up a stool to sit next to her behind the counter.

Barnum Libero was the patron of the small bookstore hidden in the back of Diagon Alley—almost in Knockturn Alley—where Hermione had recently been employed. It had happened on a cold, wet day—the rain splashing heavily on the ground making an umbrella essentially useless, the wind whipping around making the unseasonably cold air even colder—and Hermione had ducked under an awning, heaving a sigh as she tried to get some reprieve from the weather.

She had been pushing open the door before she even realized she was doing it. It had been as if the store—hidden in the back of Diagon Alley – a place Hermione thought she knew backwards and forwards – a store she had never seen before or even heard of—had been beckoning her. _"Come right in,"_ it seemed to say. _"Stay awhile."_

There hadn't been another soul in the shop—or so Hermione had thought—and she had almost thought for a moment that it was abandoned. It wouldn't have been particularly unusual. Although it had been over a year, there were a few stores that had still not reopened after the war, and Hermione wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised if such a small, secluded shop would stay closed. Small, secluded places hidden away in otherwise wizard-filled areas had been havens for the Death Eaters and prime areas that Voldemort's followers would use as a small, makeshift temporary headquarters, as Hermione had later learned.

The shop looked as if no one had even touched most of the books in over a year at least—dust lined the tops of most of the volumes and the entire store had an immobile quality, as if it were a place frozen in time. It didn't, however, have the feeling of eerie emptiness that Hermione had expected upon closer examination. Quite the opposite, in fact. The store felt welcoming, open, as if anyone of any place or time would be welcome in its doors, as if this were someone's home and there was always a kettle on.

Hermione remembered picking up a particularly dusty second edition of one of her favorite Jane Austen novels when Barnum Libero had asked—nearly making her jump out of her skin— _"Would ye like a cuppa?"_

Barny—or Libs, as many of his friends called him who came to pick up books or to just have a cup of tea or a chat—reminded Hermione so much of Mr. Ollivander, the old wandmaker, that it sometimes made her feel a bit off-kilter. Ollivander had died a few months after Voldemort's demise—most likely due to the toll that Voldemort's torture had taken on him for so many months—and if Hermione didn't know that Barny had been alive longer than Ollivander, she would have sworn that the wandmaker's soul had been implanted into the shop owner's body.

He had the same rasp in his voice — the aloof, eerie rasp that suggested there were dark corners in his mind that no one had ever seen — despite his thick Highlands accent that was so different from Ollivander's soft London accent. He had long white hair that Hermione was certain would have been as wild and untamed as Ollivander's if Barny didn't keep it pulled back in the blue ribbon that he tied it with every day. He wore crimson robes that were so thick and heavily draped on his body that Hermione sometimes feared they would swallow him whole. He was often found wearing thin white gloves that he wore when he was handling his rarer books; books that were technically for sale but so wildly overpriced that no one ever bought them, a strategy—Hermione was sure—Barny employed because he did not want to part with his precious treasures.

That was the other way that Barny reminded her of Ollivander. Hermione could remember when she first met Ollivander, and she could distinctly remember the few other encounters she had had with him. Ollivander spoke of wands so reverently that you could almost believe that he viewed them as his long lost mysterious family members— _people_ that he was detached from but that he could still understand in the way that one could only understand their family or those closest to them. He spoke of wands as if they had _minds_ , as if they connected with their masters in some kind of spiritual and preternatural way. This was the precise way that Barny spoke of his books, and—in particular—the authors of the books.

His shop—Libero's Vault—wasn't like Flourish & Blotts, which held primarily textbooks and popular wizard literature. Libero's held a wide variety of both wizard and muggle literature (which ended up being the ultimate cause of the connection between Barny and Hermione, since, when he found out she was muggleborn, he was elated), popular and obscure. The shop contained the very first edition of _A History of Magic_ written by Bathilda Bagshot, circa 1835—which Hermione had read completely through three times since the first time she stepped into the shop—as well as a copy of Dante's _Divine Comedy_ , so tattered that Hermione almost— _almost_ —believed Barny when he said it had belonged to Charles Stuart, 5th Earl of Lennox, and great nephew of King Henry VIII.

Hermione had always loved books, but she had always loved them more for their _result_ rather than for the physical books. She loved them because she craved knowledge and reading and receiving that knowledge was one of the greatest pleasures in life, according to her. But for Barny, it wasn't just the knowledge, it was the _books themselves_. He handled each one with the care that a nurse might handle a dying ward or a mother might cradle a prematurely born infant. And Hermione loved and admired this about Barny. It was such a joy to see the way he loved the books, especially the rare and antique books he kept in a special back room in the store into which few people ever ventured or were even invited.

After that first visit, Hermione went back to Libero's Vault every day for a week, borrowing books and returning them, purchasing new ones, and reading so deeply at the small table in the corner of the shop that she wouldn't realize how much time had passed until she would hear Barny's slow gait behind her as he walked around the shop and lit each of the lamps—by hand, never with his wand—as day turned to night.

It only took a week for Libs to offer her a job. It had been unexpected. She had come into the shop — for the first time in almost two years just purely joyous, blissfully excited about what she would discover today, and he said he wanted her to come work for him, as his apprentice. _"Ye're here oft enough. Why not make a bit o' galleons from et?"_ Eagerly, Hermione had accepted.

Every day was much the same. They typically only got two or three customers every day unless Barny's friends decided to stop by. So much of the day was spent with Hermione reading behind the counter and Barny toiling in the back room or the two of them chatting over coffee or Barny showing Hermione whatever he thought would interest her while Hermione listened with slightly wide eyes, trying to take in every word he said. He refused to show her everything at once because he wanted her to retain everything he said, and he was determined to see the excitement in her eyes every day.

"Thank you," Hermione said as she picked up the coffee and brought it toward her mouth to blow on it gently before she took the first sip. She hummed lightly and smiled up at Barny.

"Anyone come by while I was gone?"

Hermione shook her head. "No one."

"What're ye reading?" he asked.

Hermione held up the book so he could see the cover.

"Ah," Barny said. " _The Potionmaker_. Interesting read, that. I remember when I first came across that book…"

Barny often did this: recalling memories of the books in the shop, as if they were old friends, each with a different place in his heart and mind, laughing as he told the story, as if the books were _at it again_ or something like that.

At the end of the story, Barny was chuckling to himself and Hermione was grinning when her stomach rumbled.

"Why didn't ye say?" Barny said. "Ye're hungry."

"I'm fine," Hermione insisted, but Barny would hear none of it. He practically pushed her off her stool and out of the shop until she found herself standing on the sidewalk in front of the shop, sickles and knuts in her palm, heavy cloak around her shoulders, forced out by Barny, and a firm order to not come back until she was "stuffed like a Christmas turkey." This was also part of the routine. Always around this time of day, Barny would force Hermione out of the shop, shoving money into her hand even though she told him time and again that she could get her own lunch, and he told her to stay out until she'd eaten.

There were a variety of cafes that she ate at in a sort of rotation throughout each week, finding a table to sit at to eat and read quietly each day, but today she was just going to grab something quick and use her lunch break for something else entirely.

The book that Hermione was currently reading, _The Potionmaker_ , was a story about a wizard who believed that any spell, curse, or their counterspells and countercurses (" _opposites_ ," the author called them) could be created in potion form with significantly more powerful results. He claimed that he could make an equivalent of the Cruciatus Curse in potion form that would only take a small vile for the person taking the potion to die from the unbearable pain that it could cause, and that an equivalent of the magic in a broomstick in potion form could enable the taker to fly forever ("pixie dust").

Hermione had been researching a particular charm for weeks, which she believed she could make an _opposite_ for in potion antidote form. The only problem was that to generate the kind of power that _The Potionmaker_ called for, the potions often called for dark artifacts and ingredients, which were typically more powerful than their light counterparts. So today, on her lunch break, Hermione would be venturing into Knockturn Alley.

Hermione picked up a sandwich from the café next to Libero's Vault and glanced over her shoulder before pulling up the hood on her robes to make sure she wouldn't be recognized before turning the corner into the entrance of the notorious alley.

She kept her head down, carefully avoiding the eyes of the odd sort of people that were always found in Knockturn Alley. It was significantly less sinister and less dangerous with the fall of Voldemort, but it was no less eerie and had no shortage of dodgy characters milling about.

Occasionally, Hermione would peak under her hood, making sure she hadn't passed the shop she was looking for, before she would pull her hood even lower, avoiding each person she passed, walking briskly, the heels of her short boots clacking on the brick.

When she thought she was nearing the shop, Hermione lifted her hood slightly and gasped when she saw an old toothless woman with dyed black hair and striking gray roots at the top of her head and eyes that were such a light, pale green that Hermione had to look away instantly. She wore black robes with patches that seemed to do nothing to cover the myriad of holes and rips and tatters in the garment, along with a pointed hat that was much too large for her head.

"Hello, Mildred," the woman said, in an accent so posh and mismatched from her appearance that it made Hermione look up at her, startled. "I can't _believe_ you would show your face here."

After a pause where Hermione realized the woman was expecting her to answer, Hermione swallowed. "I'm… I'm not Mildred."

"You certainly stayed away long enough," the woman said, ignoring Hermione's words. "But here you are, and you're—"

"You've got the wrong person," Hermione said, pulling her hood down again and attempting to move around the woman and enter the shop she was trying to get to.

"Mildred!" the woman shrieked, grabbing Hermione's arm. Hermione jumped and gasped, yanking her arm from the woman's grasp. "Mildred, _please_!" she called just as Hermione was able to completely escape and duck into the shop that she had been looking for.

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed in relief when the door behind her closed and the screams of "Mildred! Mildred!" could no longer be heard. _A spell_ , she thought briefly when she realized how completely the sounds from outside the shop were drowned out in a way that could only be caused by magic.

The small shop was dimly lit and almost compulsively clean. All of the items in the shop—small orbs and vials full of shimmering liquid that Hermione didn't even want to hazard a guess as to what they were—were closed in locked glass cases. When she glanced at one row of orbs, briefly, Hermione was reminded of the prophecy room in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic. She took a step toward the row, her eyes narrowing in their focus, but then shook her head quickly and turned to walk toward the counter where a bell sat with a sign in front of it. "RING THE BELL FOR ASSISTANCE." And in smaller print, " _Only_ ring if employee is not present." Hermione couldn't help but smirk lightly to herself imagining that woman asking for Mildred coming into the shop and ringing the bell like a madwoman when the attendant was standing right in front of her.

"Hello?" Hermione called out softly. She put her hand on the bell, dinging it lightly, before she called out again toward the door that was slightly ajar and likely led to some kind of employee break room. "Hello?"

"Come by tomorrow night."

A voice floated out of the room as it neared, and for a moment Hermione thought the voice was addressing her before she saw two shadows behind the door in the frosted glass in the middle of the mahogany. She strained her ears to listen, vaguely placing one of the voices, but unable to remember where she'd heard it before.

"Vanessa makes this incredible Shepherd's Pie," the voice said. "You've never had anything like it."

"I can't believe you moved in with her," a new voice said. "You hate her."

"We're getting married next month. I don't have much of a choice."

Hermione was standing behind the counter, frozen in place, having immediately recognized the second voice, and trying to figure out her next move. They were about to come out, she didn't have time to run to the door and escape, but there was nowhere to hide. She'd already rung the bell, and everything in the store was made of glass, so they would be able to see her if she tried to duck behind anything. She could go to the ground, press flat to the floor and hope that if they didn't see her immediately they would just go inside the back room again and assume that whoever had come in had left. Maybe she could apparate – but –

Before Hermione could figure out a plan, the door opened, and she was faced with the last person she had ever expected to see.

The _Daily Prophet_ had been writing about him for the past year ( _"a newly minted recluse," "hasn't been spotted in months," "stays holed up in his family home at all times," "estranged from his parents who have fled the country," "abandoned by his former 'friends'," "pardoned by the ministry under mysterious circumstances," "shunned from society,"_ among others), and she had been under the impression that he simply didn't leave his home. She had never once expected to see him today or, frankly, ever again, but there he was, in the flesh, still with those high cheekbones, haughty chin, pale skin, white blonde hair, and pointed nose. But that was just about where his former self ended. He was bigger. She could even see it through the black button down shirt and black pants he was wearing. His arms were thicker, more muscular, his shoulders broader, and she saw something she thought she'd never see on his perfect complexion—a five o'clock shadow. His gray eyes looked bleaker, without the air of superiority, without the sneer that always seemed to reach right up to his eyes. He looked sadder, more wore down, but he also looked revitalized, stronger, especially compared to the last time she'd seen him, fleeing Hogwarts, fleeing the demise of his Lord. Fleeing his fear and regret and terror and pain and mistakes.

"Granger?"

He looked as surprised and caught off guard as she felt.

"Hello Malfoy," Hermione said after she finally found her voice. "Nott," she nodded to the second person who'd come from the room, Theodore Nott, their old classmate, who, apparently, was working at this establishment. She was stunned, and she didn't know what else to say, how else to react to this incredible shock to her system.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Nott said to Malfoy, who hadn't taken his eyes off Hermione since he'd seen her, obviously just as shocked as she was.

"No," Malfoy said distractedly. "Sorry." He turned to Nott and cleared his throat. "I can't tomorrow. Maybe another time." Nott frowned but didn't pursue the topic. "See you," he said then turned to Hermione. "Granger."

"Malfoy," Hermione managed, her voice breathy with shock and confusion.

When Malfoy left the shop, everything that came next happened in a blur. In a trance, Hermione managed to ask Nott about the ingredients she needed, but he said they didn't have them. He might have said they could special order one of them or something like that and to come back in a few weeks or months maybe, she couldn't recall because she was still thinking about Malfoy.

He looked so different from the scared, fragile boy she had last seen over a year ago. He looked—well, she didn't even know how he looked. Just… _different_ , grown up over night. Like he had changed.

Of course he had changed. The war had changed everything, everyone, especially those closest to it, like her, Harry, the Malfoys. Were the rumors true? Had his parents abandoned him? Left him alone in that huge house? Did he ever leave the house? Clearly he did, at least occasionally. And obviously not _all_ of his friends had abandoned him. He still had one. Nott. Bloody Theodore Nott, a ratty, snot-nosed kid with acne and a unibrow, who still looked almost exactly the same. His skin had cleared up a bit, but he was still as wiry and grotesque as ever. What a sad existence. Abandoned by everyone except Theodore bloody Nott.

Hermione was still thinking about Malfoy when she exited the shop. And when someone touched her elbow, she whipped around, thinking it was going to be that bloody woman looking for Mildred, and her eyes widened to the size of saucers when she saw emotionless gray eyes staring back at her.

"What are you doing here?"

"Excuse me?" Hermione yanked her elbow out of his grip. She didn't like the bolt of awareness it sent shooting through her arm. He really did seem like an almost entirely different person, like he wasn't even a person that she knew or had known at all.

Malfoy frowned. "Why are you in Knockturn Alley?" he asked. "The Dark Lord may be gone, but this still isn't the most savory place for someone like you, especially Theo's shop."

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Hermione asked, annoyed. Even after everything, even after she had helped find and destroy _seven_ Horcruxes, even after she had nearly starved on the run and been tortured and fought dozens of Death Eaters, _still_ —after everything—Malfoy could still find a way to belittle her.

"I overheard you," he said casually, as if he couldn't sense the vitriol in Hermione's tone, or he didn't care. "Talking to Theo, I heard you—what you need, I mean. Dark stuff," he said as an afterthought. Hermione crossed her arms in front of her but didn't say anything. "I can help you," Malfoy said after a pause.

At that, Hermione's features softened in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"What you need… I have it. At the Manor."

"And you would give it to me?"

Malfoy shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Sure, why not?"

Hermione was still grappling with this different Malfoy—this Malfoy that didn't sneer or call names or yell about what his _father would do when he heard about this_ ; this Malfoy that offered help when it was needed without malice or snark; this Malfoy whose eyes were haunted, whose shoulders—although broader—were slumped, chest no longer puffed out, nose no longer in the air; this Malfoy with only the lightest trace of the former haughtiness or superiority in his tone; this Malfoy upon whom war had clearly taken its toll and left a specter of the former person he had been.

This Malfoy that Hermione didn't know at all.

"Why would you help me?" Hermione asked abruptly.

There was a moment—it was quick—and if Hermione hadn't spent a year looking over her shoulder, observing all her surroundings at all times, afraid of her own shadow, if Hermione hadn't made her life one of noticing things and responding to threats and any danger, then she might not have seen it. Because as soon as it happened, it ended, and if Hermione hadn't been skilled in the art of subtlety, she would have never seen Malfoy's quick, almost imperceptible, glance at her arm. And nearly just as quickly in response, Hermione moved her arms and tugged at the sleeve on her robes.

"Bugger off, Malfoy," Hermione said angrily before turning on her heel.

She didn't want or need Malfoy's help, and she _certainly_ didn't want his bloody _pity_. She had helped defeat one of the darkest and most powerful wizards of all time at eighteen years old, and been called—more than once—the smartest witch of a generation. She was smart and brave and powerful and she could do things at her age that most people couldn't do who were three times her age, and she didn't need _Malfoy_ looking at her and helping her because he felt _sorry_ for her.

But…

Well, if Malfoy could help her with the few specific ingredients she'd gone to Theo's shop looking for—if they were just lying around his house—who knew what else he had? For all she knew, _all_ of the rare ingredients she was looking for were right in one location, held by a man who—even though she hated the _why_ —wanted to help her. And she _needed_ those ingredients. For months she had been tracking them down, reading every book on the subject, obsessively trying to locate any trace of the ingredients that she needed for this difficult potion that could restore memory. And Malfoy had them, and he would give them to her. Just like that.

Hermione stopped, only a few meters from where she had left Malfoy, and she took a deep breath. She turned around. "Okay," was all she said.

Malfoy smirked—at least _that_ hadn't changed—"Thought you might change your mind, Granger."

* * *

Hermione was walking up the stone pathway that led to the gates of Malfoy Manor, something that she could honestly say she thought she would never do again.

She could remember the last time, being dragged by a couple of Snatchers, Harry's face contorted, the look of glee on Bellatrix Lestrange's face when she had seen what she believed to be (and rightly so) his scar.

Bellatrix.

Hermione could remember, up until the point she had seen Bellatrix, being not so much scared, but more tense—at the ready—prepping herself for what was to come, prepping herself for battle. And that had been her baseline for so long during that time that she had almost been numb to it. But then she saw Bellatrix, that sadistic gleam in her eye, and Hermione had felt the first tremors of fear. She knew what Bellatrix was capable of, knew that she had tortured so many people that many of them were driven to madness. She knew how much Bellatrix craved Voldemort's approval and possibly affection and that she would do pretty much anything to get it.

And that is what drove Hermione to her fear.

Hermione's limbs began to shake slightly as she walked up the pathway, edging ever closer to the gates.

 _"State your purpose!"_

The sound of the voice—a memory—echoed in her head. She could feel her heart clench when she neared the gate, and she tried to take deep calming breathes to soothe the savage anxiety within her.

 _"We've got Potter! We've captured Harry Potter!"_

As soon as she was close enough, she saw the familiar sight of the gates as they began to contort, clearing the way for her to enter. Malfoy must have seen her coming.

The path to the front door seemed endless, and her vision was narrowing as she got closer and closer to it, closer still to her memories.

She saw the door swing open, and she half expected to see Narcissa Malfoy standing there, just as she had been not much over a year earlier, looking calm and cold, but there had been no mistaking the circles under her eyes, the exhaustion smeared on all of her features.

 _"Who are you?"_

But instead she saw the figure of Draco Malfoy, tall and broad shouldered, silhouetted against the doorframe for a moment before walking down a few steps and heading down the path in her direction.

 _"My son, Draco, is home for his Easter Holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know."_

"Granger," Malfoy said, stopping in front of her along the path and looking down at her.

 _"Draco, come here."_

"Hello, Malfoy," Hermione said as she tried—tried, tried, _tried_ and _failed_ —to suppress the memories. There was a tightening in her knees that made them feel weak, and she was suddenly terrified that she wouldn't be able to stand, that she would collapse right here in front of Malfoy while the light from the entrance to the mansion spilled out over both of them.

 _"Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"_

Malfoy stood there looking at her, but Hermione was frozen as the memories assaulted her, image after image in a wild loop in her head, cycling and whirling, screaming and ricocheting off the walls of her brain.

 _"I … maybe… yeah."_

"I…" Hermione opened her mouth and closed it several times. Then she took a step back. "I can't do this."

"Granger." Malfoy took a step forward, and Hermione glanced down for just a moment as she saw his hand twitch, moving up from his side for a moment as if he wanted to reach out and touch her. As if he wanted to comfort her in some way.

"I can't—" She nearly stumbled over her feet. "I—I haven't been here since—"

It was as if he knew _exactly_ what was going through her mind, exactly the flashes of a history that wasn't far enough away. But of course he did. Of course he knew. He'd been there.

"No one's here, Granger," Malfoy said calmly. Even the way he talked was so much different than before. So much that for a moment she forgot it was Draco Malfoy who was talking, that it was _his_ words that sank into her. The sneer that could usually be heard, every word dripping and oozing with sarcasm and hatred, was completely gone. Without it he sounded older, gentler, and just… _better_ , and Hermione could feel her anxiety slip just a fraction. "It's just me."

His words echoed in her head. _It's just me_. Slowly, the image that had started to creep up of Bellatrix began to fade, along with the image of Malfoy's mother. _It's just me_. The echoes of the memories—the voices—began to slide back into her unconsciousness as she looked up into Malfoy's eyes. _It's just me_. And those words shouldn't have been as comforting as they were, shouldn't have wrapped around her like a warm blanket, but they did. And she took a deep breath and nodded. _It's just me_. He nodded, too, and then turned, walking up the path as Hermione followed.

When they were inside, Hermione still felt okay despite the surroundings, until the doors slammed shut behind her, the exact same sound they had made when they'd slammed shut the last time she was here. And suddenly she was right back where she was the last time, the sound of the doors reminding her that she was trapped, that this was it, that this was where she would die.

 _"But surely this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger?"_

Hermione stood in the huge, expansive foyer for several long moments before she took a few steps back, leaning back against the door, closing her eyes and breathing in deep, ragged pulls, trying desperately to relax, not wanting Malfoy to see her like this, not wanting him to know that the memories of this house still haunted her.

"Granger?"

Malfoy's voice sounded as if he was talking under water, the fog in Hermione's brain intensifying.

 _"If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed. The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself."_

"Harry," Hermione choked, eyes squeezed shut, unaware that she was speaking.

"Granger."

 _"Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback."_

 _"All except… except for the Mudblood."_

 _"No!"_ —Ron's voice sliced sharply through Hermione's head— _"You can have me, keep me!"_

The pain, the agony, the humiliation, the hopelessness.

"Granger, you're not there."

Malfoy's voice was still surrounded by a thick layer of fog, but Hermione was trying to come back, trying to fight past the memories, trying to hold onto that voice.

"You're safe, Granger, it's not then. It's now."

 _"I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?"_

"Granger!"

She felt firm hands on her shoulders, and suddenly Hermione gasped loudly as if coming up from under water, sucking in gulps of air as her eyes focused again.

Malfoy was standing close, his eyes wide and concerned, a frown marring his features, the dim light casting shadows on his face. His hands were firm but gentle, and Hermione focused on them, focused on the weight and comfort they brought, the reminder that she wasn't there, like he'd said. She was here. It was now.

She stared into his eyes as he nodded, breathing deeply and slowly, making a show of it so that she would imitate him. And she did, keeping her eyes on him as they both inhaled and exhaled.

Finally, after several long moments, Hermione relaxed, her breathing more normal and steady.

"Are you all right?" Malfoy asked in a low voice.

Hermione nodded. "Yes," she said quietly. "Thank you."

He continued to look down at her, still looking concerned—a look she had never, ever seen in his eyes before—and then, after more silent moments passed, he jerked and removed his hands from her shoulders quickly, as if suddenly realizing they were there.

He cleared his throat.

"Erm."

"Thanks for letting me come."

There was a pause, and then Malfoy said, "Are you sure you want to do this, Granger?"

"Yes. I—"

"I mean, you just—"

"I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? I don't—"

"I'm fine, Malfoy," Hermione said, sounding a bit more harsh than she'd intended. But she _was_ fine. Or she would be. She knew why she had come, and she had to remember that no matter how difficult it might be at times. She had to remember that she was here for a reason, that she needed to get her parents back, needed to make them remember her, needed to be Hermione Granger, daughter of Richard and Elaine Granger again, and everything she needed was under this roof. So no matter how hard it may get, she knew why she was here. She would remember why it was worth it.

"All right," Malfoy said. He cleared his throat again. "I guess I should give you a small tour, then," he said. "Show you where you can find what you're looking for and all that."

"Thank you," Hermione said, and then followed Malfoy as he began to walk down the corridor.

Malfoy showed her the cellar and the vault where all of the ingredients and artifacts were stored. Hermione didn't dare question her good fortune when he said she was welcome to anything in the vault, and she tried not to react when her eyes would land on something she knew to be particularly dark. He showed her to the library where she would find the necessary books— _"I know how much you love books, Granger."_ —and then he showed her a little bit more—the lavatory, the kitchen, the grand ballroom. She didn't think that leg of the tour was strictly necessary—other than the lav of course—but that Malfoy was just nervous and didn't know what else to do.

When they were finished and still standing in the ballroom—Hermione pleased that her heart rate had only escalated twice on the tour—she gazed at where he was standing several feet away, hands shoved into his pockets.

"Would you mind if I… Could I do my work here?" Hermione asked quietly.

Malfoy looked up at her. "Here?"

"In your house, I mean. I think it would just be easier than lugging ingredients and books and things in and out each day and all that," she said. Not to mention the fact that she was living with Ginny and didn't want her or Harry to know what she was doing or where she was getting everything.

"Are you sure you can—?"

"I'll be fine," Hermione said quickly. "If you don't want me—"

"No, you can stay, you can do your… whatever you're doing… for as long as you need here," he said. "I'll be sure to stay out of your way when you're here."

Hermione almost said _"you don't have to,"_ but then she stopped herself and just said, "Thank you."

Malfoy began to exit the ballroom, and Hermione took one more look up at the enormous chandelier hanging from the ceiling before following him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Brief but important note: I just realized that all the strikethroughs that I've been doing on Draco's diary entries don't show up when the chapter is published, which is so depressing because I think they add so much to his entries. And the symbols to show that I'm trying to strikethrough don't work either! I'm so frustrated. So when I'm trying to strikethrough I'm going to bracket the words Draco would strike like /this\\. That way you know he wrote it but then wanted to cross it out. Ugh. Not the same, but hopefully you all can use your wonderful imaginations. Anyway I hope you enjoy this chapter - let me know what you think!_

* * *

 **3**

Hermione had been coming to Malfoy Manor for almost two weeks now, and almost every day was the same.

Malfoy would meet her at the gate, and they would exchange polite greetings – the first couple times, Malfoy would stand there awkwardly, moving his limbs weirdly like he was contemplating sticking out his hand for a handshake, but after several days, he would just smile a bit and nod before promptly turning and walking in the direction of the mansion. Then he would guide her to the library while the two of them walked in silence, only the sound of their feet echoing off the walls and high ceiling.

He always offered her tea, and she always declined, yet he had never stopped asking. Hermione suspected it was just a way to end their interaction so he could leave her alone, or he just continued to ask out of habit – a polite trait that his mother had likely taught him to adhere to.

Most of her time was spent in the library, but she moved quietly between the rooms he had shown her – the library, the cellar where the door to the vault was located, and any other room Malfoy had shown her that might be of use to her.

After he would ask if she wanted tea and he left the room when she said she didn't, he never bothered her again for the rest of her time there. Sometimes she felt eyes on her, like someone was watching her, and she assumed it was him, checking to see if she was there or maybe making sure one of their many dark family heirlooms hadn't killed her. She would occasionally see the swish of a robe when she left the heavy doors to the library cracked open, or she would think she saw someone when she was looking down, deep into a heavy book that only would have been in the restricted section at Hogwarts, but as soon as she would look up, the movement or the figure would be gone.

It had been two weeks, and for the first couple days Ginny had asked her why she was getting home from work so late. Most days, she would wake up before the sun and go to the book shop for a few hours, usually until just a little after lunch, and then apparate to Malfoy Manor where she would stay late into the night. A few days she would skip work altogether, but Barny understood. In fact, there were a few days when she was so distracted thinking about being at the Manor that Barny had insisted that she just pack up and go – " _ye're of no use to anyone when yer head is in Jupiter's third orbit."_ Just as it had been when they were in school, when Hermione used the excuse of being at the library – certainly not a lie at all because she was in _a_ library – no one's questioning of her whereabouts went any further.

Hermione was willing to admit to herself that she was frustrated – she had spent dozens of hours at Malfoy Manor already, combing through books, circling around the vault gazing closely at artifacts (only touching once she had done thorough research about what it was) and she felt no closer to finding a way to restore her parents' memories, despite all the research she'd done on potions. Sometimes she even felt like not only was she not getting any closer, but she was getting further and further from what she wanted.

It was Saturday – the third Saturday she had spent at the Manor – and Hermione had been there the entire day. Malfoy had offered her tea, which she declined, and the only food she'd eaten were the snacks that she'd buried in her bag – a granola bar and a handful of walnuts.

Hermione looked up from the book she'd been reading, and blinked several times so that her eyes could readjust from the blur that reading for too long always caused. She sighed and buried her face in her hands just as her stomach gave a loud grumble.

Absently, she wondered where Malfoy was – if he was lingering nearby, or if he was in one of the unknown rooms that Hermione had never seen. She wondered if it would be strange if she went into the kitchen of the Manor and got herself something to eat. He had never said she couldn't explore the rest of the house, he had even shown her the kitchen on that first day; he had probably just assumed that she wouldn't explore because of her… history in the Manor.

She stood up, stretching widely as her limbs protested and her bones cracked. For a moment, she just stood there, gazing around the room, admiring the sheer beauty of the space, before she gathered her nerve and headed for the door.

It was only when she was in the expansive corridor that she realized she couldn't remember where the kitchen was. Malfoy had given her the tour, of course, but like any time anyone was discovering a new place, it always looked different when you _knew_ it than from when you didn't at all. It always seemed like a different place than from the one you first saw, especially for Hermione when on the day of Malfoy's tour around the place, she was just trying not to panic when the memories of a little more than a year ago crept up.

She walked deeper into the house, away from the direction Malfoy always guided her when she was coming into the house and the direction she went when she left since she'd never seen a kitchen that way.

She walked quietly along the corridor, gazing at the huge paintings along the walls, marveling at their beauty. It was just after 6 o'clock, but the corridor was nearly completely dark, small candles lighting the way and glowing on the paintings. She wondered when Malfoy had lit them.

Her favorite painting in the corridor was one that led in the other direction that she always passed by on her way out. It was of a woman with no face, and white porcelain skin, almost ethereal, almost like she was a ghost – the only feature she had on her pale face was a mouth that was slightly agape, positioned in a way that made it seem like she was singing. Her hair was long and flowy and because of the magic in the painting it looked like she was moving under water. She could have been a siren or a mermaid or a veela or some other creature, but all Hermione knew was that every time she passed it, it was like she couldn't tear her eyes away.

The paintings this way were beautiful as well, and she found herself lingering in front of some of them as if she were an observer in a museum.

She was nearing the end of the corridor when she saw a light coming from the other side of the bend in the hall. She had passed several doors, but most of them were locked – the only open ones some lavatories and broom closets – but when she turned the corner, she saw a slightly cracked door with golden light flooding out of it.

As she approached, she heard a faint clanking sound, and unconsciously, she put her hand on the wand at her hip. When she was at the door, she pressed her face to the opening, and saw the back of a blonde head and broad shoulders, sitting at the kitchen island, twirling his finger in midair as a spoon clanked around in a cup and he read a book with his free hand.

Hermione pushed the door open, and when it creaked, Malfoy whipped around, and Hermione could almost swear he looked pleased to see her.

"Granger?" His voice cracked slightly when he spoke.

"I was wondering if I could have some tea."

He stood up so quickly it was like she had poked him with a knife.

"Oh, yeah, of course."

Malfoy immediately busied himself with the tea kettle that was on the stove, opening and slamming cabinets, while Hermione took a seat on the stool opposite where he had been sitting.

"What are you reading?" she asked, as she reached forward and turned the book over. Her eyes widened only slightly as he glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh, _The Portrait of a Lady_."

Hermione smiled to herself. "I would've never fancied you a muggle book reader."

"Yeah, well, me neither," Malfoy said with his back to her. "My therapist says it's for my _healing_."

Before she could stop herself, Hermione looked up sharply from the cover of the book she was studying and stared at the back of Malfoy's head. He looked like he had frozen, clearly realizing his slip, standing in front of the stove as the water in the kettle began to heat.

"And anyway I get bored here all by myself," Malfoy said as he turned and walked back to his stool, waiting for the water to boil. He didn't meet Hermione's eyes.

Malfoy – Draco _bloody_ Malfoy saw a _therapist_. Hermione had a million questions – when did you start, how long have you been seeing her, is she a muggle or a witch, does she know you were a death eater, does she know about Voldemort, does she know about the mark your aunt left behind on me, or the mark Voldemort left behind on you?

Instead, she just asked, "Your parents are never here?"

Malfoy shook his head, still not looking at her, fiddling with the corner of his book. "They moved out of the country."

Hermione didn't ask where. If he'd wanted her to know, he probably would've mentioned it, so instead she opted to change the subject – she didn't want him to think she was interrogating him, like she would run and tell the _Prophet_ what he'd told her. "So, what do you do here all day?"

He laughed a bit to himself and glanced up at her briefly before looking back down again. "This," he said, gesturing around the room. "Read, write…" He shrugged. "Sometimes I watch movies."

Hermione couldn't help it when her mouth fell open. "Movies?"

"I know, I know, Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater, hates muggles and everything they stand for, and he's watching _movies_." His voice came out clipped and defensive, and Hermione opened and closed her mouth a few times – something she always rolled her eyes at Ron for doing when he was speechless and couldn't form a thought – before she swallowed and shook her head.

"That's not what I meant."

She didn't know why she was defending herself, why she felt the need to justify her shock and surprise when he was right. He was a Death Eater – _was_ – and, as far as she knew, he _did_ hate muggles, but that's not even why she was stunned, not really. But she didn't need to justify herself to him, of all people, didn't need to make him feel better, didn't need to make the person who had called her _Mudblood_ more times than she could count feel better about the fact that she was judging him for watching muggle movies. But she still found herself saying –

"It's because you're… well, you're a pureblood wizard whose family is so… so entrenched in the wizarding world." She was gazing at him even though he _still_ wouldn't meet her eyes, but she didn't mind because it gave her the chance to study him without him knowing. "Not even Ron's family watches movies and his dad loves muggles."

Malfoy scoffed, but Hermione chose to ignore it.

"It's just unexpected, you have to admit."

They sat in silence for several long moments. Malfoy was staring into his empty cup, while Hermione watched him, wishing almost desperately that she could see his thoughts, _know_ if this change she thought she saw in him was real and genuine, _wonder_ when the bubble would burst.

The tea kettle rang out loudly, making Hermione jump, and Malfoy got up hurriedly, going to work on steeping her tea.

He turned his head slightly so that he was looking off to the side with his back to her. "Do you take milk or sugar?"

"Both, please."

After he gathered everything, he set a small silver tray in front of her with her tea cup where the tea was steeped, a small ivory dish of milk, a little bowl of sugar crystals, and a spoon lying on top of an embroidered cloth napkin. It was the politest and most hospitable thing she could imagine, and for a moment she just stared at the presentation in front of her. She looked up at Malfoy, who was putting away the tea kettle, and stared at him in amazement. Who was this person?

When he turned to move back to the island, she immediately tore her eyes away, busying herself with preparing her tea in an attempt to take her mind off the curious person sitting on the other side of an expanse that seemed bigger and more profound than a simple kitchen island with a marble countertop.

Malfoy was silent, a slight crease between his eyebrows. He had refilled his cup with the hot water he'd boiled, but there was no tea in it. He just had his hands wrapped around the cup like he was trying to keep warm.

"So, what kinds of movies do you like?" Hermione asked.

Malfoy looked up at her quickly, and for the first time, he met her eyes squarely, and for more than just a moment. For the life of her, Hermione couldn't remember a time when she had ever looked at him like this – when would she have? They seemed to both be studying one another, wondering each other's motivations, and Malfoy seemed to wonder, just like Hermione, when the bubble would burst.

"Erm," Malfoy said. "Different kinds… war movies, epics… I, erm… My favorite are the _Rocky_ movies—"

Hermione couldn't help herself. She burst with laughter.

 _Rocky?_ The mugglest of all muggle movies. She couldn't believe it.

She looked up at him, and saw him looking at her with a look of bewilderment and amusement, although he looked as if he was trying to conceal both.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, still laughing slightly. "It's just… that's just _such_ a muggle movie. I never would've expected you to say that."

Malfoy just shrugged with a slight smile in the direction of his cup. "What can I say?"

Hermione sipped her tea, still smiling to herself, when Malfoy spoke again.

"So, what do _you_ do every day?"

"Erm, well, I got to work," Hermione said. "And I come here."

Malfoy glanced at her. "Where do you work?"

"Libero's Vault?" Hermione offered. "It's a book shop in Diagon Alley."

"I've never heard of it," Malfoy said.

Hermione chuckled. "Most people haven't. It's off the beaten path, as they say." She paused. "It's really cool though. It's not like Flourish & Blotts or really any other place in Diagon Alley. It's owned by this old wizard – Barny, he's my boss – and there are so many old books in there. Wizard books, muggle books." She tilted her head in his direction. "Actually, you'd probably really like it since you read Henry James."

Malfoy huffed a laugh. "I wouldn't say I _read_ Henry James," he said. "I've read _one_ Henry James book."

She smiled. "Well, still, there are a lot of books. For when you're bored, or… whatever." Her smile widened a bit. "You know, if you ever get sick of _Rocky_."

There was a ghost of a smile on Malfoy's face as they lapsed into silence.

"We should… you know, if you ever want…" He swallowed, and Hermione watched his Adam's apple move up and down. "Well, you spend so much time in the library, and erm, if you ever wanted a break…" He shrugged and looked up from his cup. "We could watch a movie together. Doesn't have to be _Rocky_ ," he finished quickly.

Hermione couldn't stop the thudding in her chest. What was happening? What was he asking her? How could this new version of Malfoy continue to surprise her with every move he made, every word he uttered?

She opened her mouth, not even sure how she was going to respond, her heart pounding in her ears. "Erm—"

Hermione was interrupted by the door to the kitchen being pushed open, and the sight she saw finally made that bubble burst.

"Is Master Draco ready for dinner?"

Hermione froze, staring at the house elf standing at the door.

"Chucky—"

"You have a house elf?" Hermione asked with stunned breathlessness.

"What?" Malfoy looked at her, and Hermione stood up as if scalded, moving away from the counter with a look of horror on her face, her reaction to what she was seeing immediate and visceral.

"Even after—"

"Granger—"

"You have a house elf!" she practically shrieked, the words clawing through her throat and popping out before she could stop them, the feelings rushing through her – feelings of anger and frustration, and – even though she knew it was completely irrational – _betrayal_. He wasn't the same. He made her tea, he watched movies, _he wasn't the same_ , not like before.

Malfoy looked from her to the house elf – Chucky – looking confused.

"Erm, yeah, we've always had house elves."

"I thought after, well, after Dobby, and after – in this day and age, Malfoy!"

Her arms flailed, her face and voice becoming desperate, trying to grasp what she was seeing, trying to reconcile this _changed_ Malfoy with the person who clearly still remained. She could feel the tightness in her chest making the words difficult, the shaking in her body that made her words tremble. But he wasn't the same.

"He's—"

"Your _slave_." The words came before she even formed the thought, her chest so tight it made every word breathless. "They're _slaves_ , Malfoy."

"Now, hold on a minute—"

Chucky was just standing in the corner, obviously unsure of how to react.

"How does it feel?" she asked. _He wasn't the same_ , she knew he wasn't, couldn't be. Not after everything. "You're a prison warden, Malfoy."

"I—"

"How many are there?"

"What?"

"HOW MANY OTHER ELVES ARE HERE?"

She couldn't help it when the words were loud, echoing off the walls of the kitchen, settling in the room heavily before Malfoy finally clenched his jaw.

"Merlin!" he said, raising his voice for the first time. "Four," he said. "Chucky and three others."

"I'm leaving," Hermione said, the anger replaced with something akin to sadness, making her tremble. He _was_ the same. He would always be the same, and it was her own fault for believing that he might be different, for believing the best in people even when they didn't deserve it, even when she had _years_ – when she could fill pages, _volumes_ – of reasons why she shouldn't.

"Granger, wait."

"No!" Hermione whirled around from where she had moved near the door. She was shaking so hard that she didn't know if she'd be able to apparate properly. "I was able to look past my memories of this place. I was able to look past… _you_ and who you were—but _this_."

She threw him one last disgusted look, ignoring the pained look on his face, before she turned and rushed from the room.

* * *

 _September 9, 1999 7:10pm_

 _Where the hell does Granger get off?_

 _Why does she think she can yell at me about how things are in_ _my_ _house? This is my house, and she's lucky that I let her come here every day for so many hours to nose through all of my family's stuff, particularly because some of the stuff isn't strictly legal. But I let her come here, I let her invade my home, and this is how she repays me? By trying to give me a lesson about_ _my_ _house elf?_

 _It doesn't concern her! It's not her business! I shouldn't have even felt like I had to tell her how many others worked here. But then she was looking at me like that, and I just felt like I had to. I didn't know someone could look so sad over bloody house elves, and I don't want her to be sad, I'm not that evil. /_ _Not after\_ _I let her come here every day out of the kindness of my bloody heart, and she wants to think I'm an arsehole because I have some bloody house elves around to help me tend to this enormous, empty, cold /_ _lonely\_ _house. Well Granger can go to hell and she can take her bloody_ _opinions_ _straight there with her._

" _They're SLAVES Malfoy."  
_ " _You're a prison warden Malfoy."  
_ " _In this day and age_ _ **Malfoy**_ _."_

 _Whatever Granger._

 _Yeah, I don't want her to think I'm some kind of monster or something. Not that I_ _care_ _what Granger thinks, but Chucky_ _wants_ _to be here. All the house elves that are still here are Chucky's family anyway and they_ _want_ _to be here, they've all told me. Of course, they probably have to tell me that because they're /_ _sla\_ _house elves. They aren't slaves! I treat them better than my father ever did. Hell, Chucky is basically my only friend at this point. He's the only person I see every day, other than Granger now I guess. Because she_ _has_ _been coming every day since that first day, and no one is forcing her. If she finds me so bloody distasteful she doesn't have to keep coming back, and she didn't have to talk to me or ask me about myself or whatever. She can come here, do whatever she needs to do, and then leave. If that's what she wants._

 _I mean, we didn't talk at first. I didn't want to get in her way, or for her to think I was watching her /_ _even if I wanted to wat\_ _But after that… and, hell, I never thought I'd ever say this about her, but I_ _liked_ _talking to her. I liked hearing about what she does when she's not here, especially the stuff about Libero's. I want to go there some time, not to see her or anything, and I don't want her to think I'm there for her, the place just sounds cool. It would be nice to see her out of the Manor, too, I guess._

 _I don't want her to think so poorly of me. Still. I've changed. I know I have._

 _I'm sure Dr. Blazer would have loved all that. What a good boy you are, Draco, expressing your_ _feelings_ _._

 _10:21pm_

 _I got Granger a birthday gift. Just… I saw on her calendar when she went to the loo one day (I wasn't spying on her or anything. I just happened to be walking down the hall when she was out) that she had her birthday marked down, and I thought – I mean, it's nothing major or anything. I wonder if I should give it to her now. I wonder if she'll even come back. I hope she does. I just don't want this gift to go to waste, that's all._

* * *

 _September 17, 1999 9:08 am_

 _She's here. She came back. I should bring her some tea._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hi loves - I did not forget about this story I promise. I've just been so busy with life stuff and haven't gotten around to putting up a chapter. The next update will be much quicker, I just need to edit that chapter and it's done. So let me know what you think!_

* * *

 **4**

Hermione had been writing notes in the library of Malfoy Manor for over an hour when she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

Neither of them had spoken about their argument from the previous week. Malfoy had looked fairly stunned when he had seen her at the door, but Hermione hadn't said a word about what had happened – not about Chucky, not about her storming out, not about the fact that it was obvious he'd thought she wasn't coming back. And definitely not about the fact that he'd smiled when he'd seen her, almost like he couldn't help it, but it lasted for only a moment – just a glimpse – and then he went back to looking at her with schooled features.

Malfoy was right to think Hermione wasn't coming back if that's what was on his mind when she'd shown up at the door. Because up until that morning, she had been fairly convinced herself that she wasn't going back to the Manor.

When she'd left that day, the feelings that were swirling around in her head and in her chest were so varying and profound that it took the first couple days to even calm down and settle on how she felt and what she was going to do. Her first and most prevalent feeling, of course, was anger. Hermione had always felt strongly about the treatment of house elves in the wizarding world – she felt it so backwards and hypocritical, and it stunned her that a world she loved so much could have such terrible customs. After all that had happened with the war and with Voldemort, she had somehow thought that things had changed, that people wouldn't do ridiculous things like keep house elves as unpaid servants. To stand there in that kitchen staring in the face of the reminder of who Malfoy was and everything that he represented was… tragic.

And that was the other thought that kept swirling in her head. She thought Malfoy was different – she _wanted_ him to be different – she didn't want him to be the boy that he was, she wanted him to be the man that she now thought she saw, the one that was quiet and thoughtful and welcoming; the one that liked _Rocky_ and was working through his problems with a therapist and held a mug of hot water to warm his hands. She wanted him to be a person she could talk to and sit with and drink tea – she didn't want him to be the person that, deep down, she knew he always would be.

The thing that kept tripping her up, though, was when she asked herself why she even cared about that. Why did she need Malfoy to be that better person? Why did she even care? She wasn't there to be friends with Malfoy, she was there because she had a job to do – she needed to get her parents' memories back, get her parents back, and he had the resources she needed. It didn't matter who Malfoy was or who he might be now, even if in the back of her mind, she still couldn't stop wondering.

That was ultimately what brought her back to the Manor that morning. She couldn't let her mind wander to Malfoy. This wasn't _about_ Malfoy. This was about her parents. And her. Not about the way Malfoy looked at her when he sat across from her. Not the way he spoke to her, almost shyly, when he asked her what she did when she wasn't here. Not about the way, now, when the footsteps got closer and she saw the door open and Malfoy pushing through with a tray for tea, her heart rate picked up a bit.

She wasn't happy to see him. She wasn't grateful to him. She wasn't breathing in a little more deeply when his scent wafted in after him – peppermint and something spicy. She wasn't watching him as he moved, concentrating on what he was doing. She wasn't doing any of that. She didn't care. She had a job to do.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," Malfoy said as he walked toward her. "I thought you might like some tea." He set the tray down in front of her – a small porcelain kettle with a matching cup, a few tea bags, a small white dish of milk and a matching dish of sugar. And the spoon, sitting on top of the same embroidered napkin from the last time he gave her tea. And just like she'd done last week, she stared down at the tray, then up at him, mildly stunned once again, but this time when she looked up at him, he was looking at her, watching her.

"Thank you," Hermione said.

Malfoy gave her a small, polite smile and turned to go with a slight nod.

 _Shit_ , Hermione thought. Peppermint and spice, holding the mug to warm his hands, he likes _Rocky_ – "Wait."

Malfoy turned slightly back toward her and raised his eyebrows in question.

"You only brought one cup."

Hermione waved her wand at a blank piece of parchment sitting in front of her and watched as it trembled for a moment and then transfigured into a teacup.

Malfoy frowned, and Hermione gestured to the chair across from her.

"I need a break anyway," Hermione said. Her eyes were starting to get a little swimmy like they did when she stared at the pages of a book for too long.

Malfoy sat down, and looked at the cup Hermione transfigured for a moment before taking it in his hand and twirling it by the handle a bit. He smirked before he set it down and poured himself some hot water.

"This is a good bit of transfiguration," he said as he dipped his tea bag into the cup and wrapped his hands around the cup as it steeped.

Hermione glanced at his hands for a moment before looking at him. "Thanks," she said.

They lapsed into silence, Malfoy absently stirring his tea bag around in his cup while Hermione removed her bag and started to pour milk and sugar into her cup.

When Hermione looked up, Malfoy was squeezing his teabag into his cup to wring out the excess water as he cleared his throat.

"What – can I ask – what are you working on down here?" His head was tilted to the side, sounding almost slightly defensive, like he'd built up his nerve to ask and he was worried she wasn't going to tell him. "You don't have to tell me," he said with a shrug when Hermione didn't immediately answer. "Just curious."

Hermione swallowed. She hadn't told anyone what she was doing, not even Harry, primarily because she kept thinking, _what if this doesn't work_? She hadn't even really said to herself what she was doing, and she'd certainly never said it out loud. She wasn't ready to say it, and that's why she surprised herself when she opened her mouth and said:

"I'm trying to reverse a memory charm."

Malfoy frowned. "On who?"

Hermione looked at Malfoy for a few long moments. "My parents."

His frown deepened. "I… I'm confused."

Hermione sighed. "It's, well, it's kind of a long story."

Malfoy shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. "I don't mind if you don't."

She looked into her teacup. "Well, erm – well, I guess – did you ever know what Harry, Ron, and I were doing that last year or so before Voldemort was killed?"

Hermione noticed the twitch in Malfoy's jaw when she said Voldemort's name – even now the old fear lingered.

"I've heard rumors, but nothing that makes any sense."

"No, it wouldn't," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Harry's never given the official story to anyone outside of the Ministry. Not yet, anyway." She laughed humorlessly. "Not that the entire staff of the _Prophet_ hasn't tried." She glanced up at Malfoy, and he was just eyeing her. Waiting. After a moment she said, evenly, "We were hunting Horcruxes."

"What?" Malfoy looked incredulous. "I… I didn't know any Horcruxes actually existed."

"So you know what they are then?"

"Of course," said Malfoy. "Dark stuff. I read about them in one of our books once and I never looked in that book again."

"Well, Voldemort," Hermione said before she paused for moment. "He made seven."

Malfoy gaped. " _Seven_?"

She nodded. "Eight, technically, if you count Harry."

Malfoy shook his head with incredulity. "Potter? He was a –"

"Horcrux, yeah."

Hermione told Malfoy the entire story – how they went on the run, hunting Horcruxes in an attempt to bring about Voldemort's downfall, while Malfoy cringed every time she said the name. She told him how she suspected towards the end, about Harry, saw the connection that Harry had with Voldemort, putting the pieces together when she realized the connection ran deeper than anyone thought. She told him how Harry discovered he had a piece of Voldemort inside him, how he could speak Parseltongue, and how, a few weeks after everything had happened and she, Harry, and Ron were laying up late one night on the floor of Ron's bedroom at the Burrow, and Harry tried to speak Parseltongue and couldn't.

She told him how the only people who knew about the Horcruxes were her, Harry, Ron, Dumbledore, and possibly Snape - and of course, Voldemort.

"I knew he would eventually realize what we knew," Hermione said, her voice quiet as she stared at a spot on the table and remembered. "And I knew that once he did, he would stop at nothing to get to us, to protect himself. And I knew that if he found out who I was, he would send someone after my parents. A muggleborn witch helping Harry Potter? He would've sent one of his –" Hermione paused for a moment and glanced up at Malfoy.

"It's okay," Malfoy said, studying her.

"I was going to say goons," Hermione said with a small smile.

Malfoy smiled in return. "Sounds about right."

Hermione laughed lightly to herself, not stopping to think about how easy it was to tell all of this to _Draco Malfoy_. "Well, anyway, I knew he'd send someone to torture and kill them, and so I erased their memories of me and sent them to Australia."

"Granger, that's… wow."

Hermione shrugged. "I did what I had to do."

"Well," he said, his frown deeper than ever. "What about _Finite Incantatum_?"

She shook her head. "I knew if the Death Eaters somehow found them and knew they were my parents that was the first thing they'd try. So I made it so that would be impossible."

"Damn," Malfoy said, like he was genuinely trying to think of ways to help them.

"I'm thinking a potion might work," Hermione said. "Have you ever read _The Potionmaker_?" When Malfoy shook his head, she went on. "It's about this potionmaker" – she laughed – "obviously," making Malfoy smirk. "He says that any spell or curse or counterspell or countercurse can be created in potion form with _more_ power behind it."

"Interesting," Malfoy murmured.

"Only problem is there isn't really a potion created yet for the Memory Charm antispell…" Hermione sighed. "Potions was never my best subject."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Every subject was your best subject, Granger."

Hermione just smiled to herself. "Well, anyway, that's what I'm doing," she finished with a shrug. She looked up at Malfoy through her lashes, wondering if he'd say anymore, and when she did, she found that he was already looking at her intently. There was something in his eyes that she couldn't read, and all she wanted was to sit there and stare at him for hours, trying to understand.

"I could help you, you know." Hermione didn't know if they'd been staring at each other for five seconds or five minutes, but when he spoke, she sucked in a breath.

"What?"

"I could help you with…" he gestured at the scattering of books and parchment at the table. "All this."

"I –"

"Look, no one knows this library better than me," Malfoy said. "And no one knows those vaults better than me, except maybe my father, and he's not here. I could speed up your research time, and if it's a potion you need, I'm pretty good with them."

"Malfoy, I don't –"

"You don't have to say yes or anything," Malfoy said quickly. "I know you don't, you know, trust me, but I thought I would offer since I'm just kind of sitting around all day while you do this work, and I don't want to be rude so I thought, but no, it was weird of me to offer. I get that. So just forget –"

"Malfoy," Hermione said, holding up a hand with a smile. "Stop, stop." She shook her head. "You're acting like I said no when I haven't even said anything."

"Oh," Malfoy said. "So?"

"I mean…" She thought for a moment. He was right, she didn't entirely trust him, but he was also right about her needing the help and him knowing more about this library and that vault than anyone. She frowned. "I just don't know."

Malfoy nodded before she even finished the sentence. "Absolutely," he said. "No problem." He placed his hands flat on the table, and Hermione's heart sped up when he started to stand. She suddenly realized she didn't want him to go. "I should get back to…" he trailed off and looked around for a moment. "Thanks for letting me have tea with you."

"You didn't finish yours –"

"If you need anything…"

"Are you… do you have something to do?" Hermione asked him, looking up at him from where he stood on the other side of the table with his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Erm, well, sure, I can –"

"I'd like your help," she said, not coming to the conclusion until after the words were out of her mouth. "You're right," she said when his eyes got slightly wide. "You know this place better than anyone, and I'm not getting as far as I'd hoped."

Malfoy swallowed. "Are you sure?"

Hermione met his eyes. "I want… I want you to stay," she said.

A crease formed between Malfoy's eyebrows like he didn't entirely know that she meant, and, frankly, Hermione didn't really know what she meant by those words either, just that she meant them. She wanted him to stay, she wanted his help, she didn't want him to go, even if she didn't quite know why.

Malfoy pulled out the chair in front of him, and sat down slowly, never taking his eyes off Hermione. When he sat, he pulled a book over to him from a large stack in the corner where Hermione had placed the books she hadn't read yet. He thumbed through it for a moment before he looked up at her where she was still looking at him. "This won't be helpful," he said before putting it on the floor at his feet.

"See," Hermione said with a smile. "You're helping already."

The soft smile he gave her made Hermione's heart thump.


End file.
